Saturday, September 5, 2015

Ready or Not, Here I Come!

(Did you get that modern day emphasis? Or did I fuck with your head by using appropriate capitalization? Go, me!)

I've done all of the "oh-hey-did-you-consider-this" queries to the man. You know, something to put all of your toiletries in when you make the trek to shower and shave. And, you know, the number of underwear to have so you're not doing laundry once a week (or turning the underwear inside out). And the reminder that having flip-flops that you only wear to and from the shower so, you know, no athlete's foot and no walking in -oh-my-fucking-god-what-is-that.

Still. And all. I am not ready. He is. Oh, good god, he is. He is more than ready. And he will be just fine.

And yet I find myself wondering, once again, how my mother managed to let us all free and go on with her life. I'm not saying she never gave a care. She did. She does. But how do you make the transition? When do you stop having to have that child near you, in your home, sheltered in a shell that is his room where you make sure you knock, but you knock, and he says, "Come in"?